


and you'll be alright

by oh_simone



Category: La La Land (2016)
Genre: Coda, F/M, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9221603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: She comes in on a Friday night, just after 10 pm, about halfway through the second set. This time he doesn't stumble, or falter, or dive into sentimental little flights of fancy on the piano before all and sundry.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just watched the movie last night, adored it, and needed just a teensy bit of self-indulgent closure. Also, this is probably the fastest I've written anything in ages, so please forgive any unintentional errors.

She comes in on a Friday night just after 10 pm, about halfway through the second set. It’s a full house with more on the way, weekend nights being what they are, but he spots her almost immediately. That has always been a defining trait of their interactions—they draw towards each other helplessly like magnets whenever they are in the same room. This time when he sees her, he doesn't stumble, or falter, or dive into sentimental little flights of fancy on the piano before all and sundry. Instead, he very calmly passes control of the piano off to the bandleader and hops off the stage, smooth as silk, cool as jazz.

No one in the audience seems to have caught on to the fact that Hollywood’s latest leading lady is among them, though she certainly isn’t hiding deliberately. She’s leaning against the bar in a black dress and flats, and she’s watching him like she always has, unblinking, open, that crooked smile tugging at her lips. It’s been years, but when he finally comes to a stop before her and mirrors her pose, her grin widens and it’s like no time has passed.

“Hey,” he says. Does not croak.

“Hi,” she replies. “I see you stole my idea. _Seb’s_. I Googled it, by the way. Yelp gives you four out of five stars.”

“That’s outrageous, should be five.”

“‘No real food’.” She punctuates the air with little jabs of her fingers.

“The _music_ is the food. Besides, there’s a full bar, what more do these people want?”

“Tapas, probably.”

They laugh. He raises his arm; she leans in and they embrace. It’s a little awkward, but sweet.

“Congratulations,” she tells him. “I wish I’d known about this place earlier.”

“Well, you were off being a jet-setting, Oscar-nominated, West-Coast deserter for the past five years, so you’re forgiven.”

Her eyebrows raise in amusement. “Wow. Strong feelings about that, huh?”

“I mean, can you be more of a cliché Hollywood success?” he says, and she rolls her eyes and shoves his arm fondly.

“Oh, stop. Look at yourself! You made it! We both did. That’s incredible. This, this whole thing, _Seb’s_ , that’s amazing,” she says, her voice softening and her eyes enormous and dark. In the dim lighting, with the exuberant madness of music and jazz behind them, he has to hold himself back from leaning into her. He’s in terrible danger of being in love all over again, but if he’s honest with himself, there hasn’t been anyone who’s come close since she left for Paris. That’s alright; he’s not surprised. He’s a musician—he’ll let people go, but allow them to haunt him endlessly. She’s been doing it pretty effectively from ever billboard, every TV channel, every magazine cover, since she left.

He cocks his head. “Want the five cent tour?”

She looks pleased and nods. He motions for his floor manager to keep an eye on things, and escorts her around the room, leaning in to tell her about the history of the building, the different acts, and the one rule they have for the club: no keytars. The last makes her laugh out loud, drawing some curious looks. They exchange half-guilty grins and then he says, “We have roof access too.”

It’s a bare, flat rooftop covered in reflective paint and dotted with boxy air conditioning units and generators, but there are a few folding chairs up next to the vents and some enterprising kid has strung up strings of white light between the door and the railings. It’s pretty, at night. There’s no real height in Los Angeles to speak of, unless you’re on a hill somewhere, but even from four stories up, the streets and night with their endless stretch of streetlamps like little urban spotlights, the steady glow of store signs and that brisk midnight breeze that rifles the palm trees swaying up high, well.  

“It’s pretty,” she says. In the glow of the lights, he realizes her dress is actually a dark blue.

“It’s alright,” he says. She looks at him and he half-smiles out at the city below.

“I did actually come see you for a reason,” she tells him, turning away from the view. “To consult about something. Get your… opinion.” She’s hesitant.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think you should do another _Fast Rider_ movie; the first one is a modern classic, you can’t improve on it

“Oh my god, you’re delusional,” she laughs. “That movie was garbage.”

“Excuse you, I think you meant cinematic masterpiece,” he says. “A true testament to your acting genius. I do matinee screenings in the club sometimes.”

“No, you don’t,” she moans.

“Oh, I do. We hand out super soakers and popcorn and tinsel for the audience to throw at the screen, Rocky Horror style.”

She’s covering her face, laughing and groaning simultaneously. “I hate you so much. But that sounds amazing.” She peeks at him through her fingers. “In all seriousness, I do have something to ask.”

“Well let’s hear it,” he says, somewhat warily.

Her purse is small, and from its negligible depths, she pulls out an item even smaller. It’s a flash drive.

“State secrets?”

“A script,” she tells him, and there’s a hint of the old nervousness in her voice there. He looks back blankly. “It’s by me. I wrote it. I wrote a script. A new one.”

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” he repeats, cradling it in the center of his palm. He is holding precious treasure, wrapped in black plastic and circuitry.

“It’s about us,” she adds in a rush.

“About us,” he echoes. “And, you want me to… read it?”

“Only if you want to, you don’t have to,” she assures him hastily. “I—you really don’t have to, I just wanted—well, since it’s, you know. I thought it’s fair you… saw it first.”

He looks up then. “I’m the first to read it?”

With a huff of self-deprecating laughter, she shrugs. “Yeah, you are.”

Smiling, he tucks the flash drive away, folds his arm. “In that case, how can I say no?”

She looks relieved, apprehensive, and so, so much like the one thing he's ever regretted letting go that he has to look away, feign some distraction, glances at his watch and pretends to check the time.

“You gotta go?” she asks.

“A new set in ten minutes,” he says. Truthfully, his floor manager can handle it, but if they stay out here for much longer, he’ll be in danger of risking his hand on her waist, her head on his shoulder, and waltzing them off the roof and up into the deep velvet sky of Los Angeles.

“Then we’d better get Seb back to _Seb’s_ ,” she says, but there’s a wistful tone that he catches, and she’s got that crooked smile again when he looks.

He can’t hold her hand anymore—they aren’t young, in love, and together against the world, and they’ve moved on, evolved along different paths in life. There are other people that have replaced him in her life—someone else to hold her hand and draw her close, to comfort her and kiss her lips. But he’s never stopped loving her, and she’s never stopped loving him; that counts for something. He offers her his arm instead, and she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow readily and with an ease that soothes the nostalgic pangs in his heart.

“What’s it called?” he asks as they make their way back down to earth. “Your script about us.”

“I don’t know yet,” she says, and glances at him. “But I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“Hm,” he says. After a moment of thought, he whistles the first few notes of an old, familiar tune, and watches her face light up.

“Yes,” she agrees, eyes sparkling. “Something like that.”


End file.
